Dirty Shirts
by devilish rubies
Summary: a funny one-shot about how Sweeney would react if he was forced to do his own laundry...and the laundry refused to come clean...constructive criticism welcome, but preferably no flames


Dirty Shirts

**Just a humorous one-shot about how Sweeney would react if he had to do his own laundry…**

Mrs Lovett did not leave Sweeney alone much these days, and he smirked to himself from inside his shop as he saw her walking towards the market, Toby beside her. Finally, he had the place to himself, and he could do whatever he wanted to.

He began to search for some materials that he would need, but found only some sunglasses in his room. Sighing, he left the shop and headed downstairs.

Sweeney found a mop in the pie shop and happily dragged that along with him; it would come in handy. He began to hum as he looked for the remaining items.

Once back in his room, the barber put the mop and the sunglasses in a corner and hummed merrily as he took off his boots and vest. It was only then that he realised that his shirt was covered in numerous bloodstains. Frowning from his dilemma, he shuffled over to where he kept his clean clothes. To his dismay, he found only more piles of bloodied shirts, and not a single clean one.

He would have to wash the shirts himself. O

Grumbling, he gathered the pile of dirty shirts in his hands and left the shop, walking slowly to keep from slipping.

Finally he reached the laundry, and dumped all the shirts in the huge wash basin, before going to fetch some water. He returned with the water, and poured it into the basin, before stripping the shirt he was wearing and throwing that in too.

After fifteen minutes of scrubbing, Sweeney stared angrily at the stubborn shirts which just would not come clean. He mumbled irritably to himself, while throwing dirty looks at the shirts, as if they were deliberately staying dirty.

"Damn dirty shirts," he muttered, trying to find some soap to wash them with. "Aha!" he cried, having found some soap. "Who's smarter now, you damn dirty shirts!" He once again began to scrub at the shirts, his eyes wide, his teeth bared, rocking back and forth with the ferocity of his scrubbing. Mrs Lovett, who had just returned home, stood outside the door and giggled as she heard a string of profanities slip from his mouth, among which was the term "God damn dirty shirts!"

"God damn dirty shirts!" Sweeney snarled. "Why won't you come clean?" He dropped the shirt back into the water, and stepped back, pointing his finger at the dirty shirts.

"Damn you!" he howled. "Damn you all to hell!" Mrs Lovett snorted in laughter, and shoved a hand to her mouth to prevent him from hearing her.

Sweeney had tried everything. He had tried scrubbing the shirts, he had tried threatening them with his razors if they didn't come clean, he had tried pleading with them to come clean, he had tried yelling at them, and he had tried reasoning with them to come clean. Hell, he had even kicked them, but that hadn't had much effect he thought, as he stared at the soggy mass in the corner, which had not cried out in pain once.

"Now, dirty shirts, I know we've had our differences in the past," he tried, staring at the shirts in the basin, "but maybe if you just rid yourself of all that blood, we can work out our differences. I'm sure there'll be a pie in it for you." The shirts, it appeared, did not want pies, as they remained stubbornly silent.

"FINE!" Todd yelled. "BE LIKE THAT! I DON'T NEED SHIRTS!"

But he did need a shirt to do what he had wanted to do in the first place, the thing he had wanted to do that required sunnies, a mop and…a shirt.

Todd had been forced to do so many tough and difficult things in his life, most of them during his time in prison, but never once had he been forced to wash the blood out of his shirts, and it was completely beyond him.

Normally when confronted with a problem he couldn't solve, Todd had eliminated the problem (usually just killing whatever it was) but he did not know how to kill the shirts. So, he did the only thing a man can be expected to do when in a situation that involves trying to clean stubborn damn dirty shirts: he sat down and cried.

"Why won't you just come clean?" he wailed, screwing up his eyes and burying his head in his hands. So loud and so demanding where his sobs, that Sweeney did not hear Mrs Lovett enter the room, and begin to scrub the shirts. Within ten minutes, Sweeney's sob session was over, and he sat up, rubbing his blotchy eyes. There, in front of him, was a pile of white, pristine shirts, dry and all. He gasped in wonder at the brightness of them, and almost felt the need to run and get his sunglasses to block the white light coming off them.

"Mrs Lovett, you are a bloody wonder," he growled, picking up the shirts and carrying them upstairs.

"Thank you, Mr T," she whispered happily from in her pie shop, after she had heard him enter his own shop. But she was curious as to why he had wanted the clean shirts so desperately, so she crept up to the door of his shop and peeked in…

On the other side of the glass, Mr Todd had cranked up some music, which was blaring loudly through the door. It was a bright, fast, cheery tune, but the glass only gave Mrs Lovett a small view of the room, and Mr Todd was not in it.

Suddenly, he slid into view, literally _slid _on the wooden floor, and began swaying from side to side with the music, smirking widely; Mrs Lovett could not help herself, and laughed hysterically.

Sweeney was dressed in his boxer shorts, socks, and a clean, white shirt, which was hanging open, revealing his chiselled chest. He also had a pair of sunglasses on, and was carrying her mop as if it was a guitar, strumming it wildly a few times as he sang along to the tune. She tried to catch some of the words of the song.

There were several trumpet notes, then…

_Who likes short shorts? _Sweeney sang, wiggling around as the trumpets blared again.

_I like short shorts, _he continued, pointing to his shorts as he bounced up and down.

There were more trumpet solos, and Sweeney slid around in a circle in his shorts and socks, and strummed the mop as if it were a guitar again. Mrs Lovett let out another hysterical laugh, before giggling all the way down the stairs.

"Mr T, _you _are a bloody wonder."

**Well, hopefully that succeeded in making a few people laugh…if u liked it, I would be soooo grateful if you could tell me what you liked by reviewing…if u didn't like it, well, maybe I improve with some constructive criticism. If you don't feel like reviewing…that's fine, just hope you enjoyed it!**


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